Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 139147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 139147 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 696(@200wpm)___ 557(@250wpm)___ 464(@300wpm)
Luna and I watched her go.
Then we looked at each other.
After that we sat down.
“You good?” she asked.
“Yep,” I answered.
“Raye, my sister,” she said with a gravity that made my eyes go to her. “Are you good?”
I knew her question now.
Dad, Mom and I didn’t get that relief. Macy wouldn’t come home any of our tomorrows.
But Betsy had a lot of love for Christina, so no matter how messed up their relationship was, I had faith they’d be fighting again, if not soon, then someday.
And that really, really, really worked for me.
I bumped her with my shoulder and answered, “I’m great.”
She examined my face before she looked away and complained, “This is taking forever.”
“I know. I guess it’s not kosher to storm a warehouse and beat the shit out of a bunch of bad dudes.”
“Yeah, they got some ’splainin’ to do,” she mumbled.
She stretched her legs out in front of her.
I perused my phone to see what game I could play to pass the time.
A couple minutes later, we heard a bing.
We looked at each other again, then Luna fished her burner out of the pocket of my joggers and looked at it.
“Voicemail,” she whispered.
Voicemail?
As in an actual voice sending us a message.
“Holy crap,” I replied.
She flipped open the phone and I huddled closer as she put it to both of our ears.
We listened to a three-word message.
We sat immobile when it ended.
Slowly, Luna pulled the phone away from our ears, and equally slowly we turned our heads toward each other.
“Fucking hell,” she said.
“You can say that again,” I replied.
I watched the smile creep over her face at the same time that happened to mine.
“Awesome,” I whispered.
“You can say that again,” she replied, whispering like me.
Why were we acting so weird?
Because, not in John Forsythe’s voice, but in a voice that sounded like Morgan Freeman, the voicemail said…
“Well done, Angels.”
TWENTY-FOUR
BEER PONG
Cap was naked, sprawled on his stomach diagonally across the bed, the sheets covering his ass (which was a shame), when I walked in with two mugs of coffee the next morning.
Patches knew a good thing and was curled asleep by his hip.
I put the mugs down, bounced on the bed beside him and smacked his beautiful ass.
He groaned.
“Wake up, stud,” I called.
“I think you broke me,” he mumbled into the bed.
I started laughing, plastered my chest to his back and kissed his shoulder.
He dislodged me and sent Patches scurrying by rolling.
So I plastered my chest to his front and kissed his mouth.
When I lifted my head, he said, “If you want me to fuck you, I’m game. But you’re gonna have to ride my dick, cowgirl. It shits me to say this, but I’m not up to doing the work.”
I was unsurprised by this.
I was so jazzed and happy the women were safe (as I suspected, we missed some, all in all, there were fourteen, but all the ones I was looking for were there, including Divinity), and I learned a fun fact: after an operation, Cap got jazzed too.
So last night, we barely got through the door before we were fucking on the floor.
We’d made it halfway down the hall before I was on my back and Cap was going down on me.
We eventually tripped into the bedroom, where Cap bent me over the side of the bed and did me.
And it didn’t end there.
So you get the picture.
Not to mention, it wasn’t me who scaled a chain-link fence then beat the absolute crap out of seven guys.
So…
“I don’t think, with how pretty your dick is, I’ll ever be fucked out, just a nugget of wisdom about me you should know,” I told him. “But you’re off duty, and I brought coffee, because we need to rally. Dad and Deb are gonna be here in an hour to meet us to go out for breakfast. And we can’t delay. Dad was making noise about coming back for Thanksgiving. Their flight leaves at two, so we don’t have a ton of time with them.”
He threw an arm over his eyes.
I kissed his chest.
He pulled his shit together, pushed himself to right in bed, shoved pillows behind him and lifted a hand, which I took to mean, “Coffee.”
I grabbed our mugs, gave him his, then curled on a hip by his side, sipping.
He was sipping too, and when he was done, he asked, “You think dicks are pretty?”
“No,” I answered. “I think your dick is pretty, because I get to play with it, and you use it to fuck me. Generally, dicks are gross. And dick pics are grosser.” I took another sip and queried. “Why do guys do that?”
“The men who do that think with that part of their anatomy. Their personalities are so tied up in it, they believe everyone will think it’s as awesome as they do. That’s another way to say, they don’t have a lot to offer. If they have anything.”